I’m many things, but one thing I am not is talented. I don’t really excel at anything. I’ve mentioned previously that I’m mediocre at a lot of things; I can kind of follow directions on recipes, resulting in decent baked goods and food. I can sort of get in the way of an offending field hockey player to try to stop them for scoring a goal. I can casually pluck the strings of a guitar, but after my parents made me perform in a recital when I was 15 it ended in tears and hyperventilation, this has become more of a private venture than a journey to musical stardom. I know I’m not talented, but somehow I’ve gotten myself to believe that I’m really good at the following things, when in reality they are probably the skills I lack most.
I love to dance and I dance all the time. I took a dance class from when I was two until I was seven, which probably explains why I still dance like an uncoordinated child. But with each year, I manage to tell myself that my dancing skills have improved and that I look damn good when I shake it out at parties or clubs. Or in my room. Or down the street. Or anywhere. I don’t really think taking Zumba classes has helped me much in terms of my thoughts on my dancing skills. There’s just something about the cheering and the hair-flipping and the booty-shaking that happens in that hour-long class that makes me think, Goddamn, I’m hot! And then I watch myself in the mirrors in the studio and realize I’m certainly hot temperature-wise, but in terms of sexiness… not so much. This realization quickly fades with the next body roll I’m required to do, and I’m back to thinking I look just as good as Beyoncé in the “Single Ladies” music video.
Putting on my makeup is probably my favorite part of the day. I can make myself go from looking like a sleep-deprived creature into an almost human being in about 10 minutes. It’s kind of magical. What isn’t magical is the lack of knowledge I actually have about putting on makeup. This has been the case since I was first allowed to start wearing that shit in the sixth grade. At 11 years old, I was applying purpley-silver eye shadow like it was my job. By 13, I had huge, black rings of eyeliner around my eyes, making me look like a half-raccoon, half-pubescent gothic girl. I’ve since toned it down (a lot) and I think this is why I believe I’m really good at makeup. I’m certainly better at putting it on than I was seven years ago, but not as good as I think I am. I leave my building in the morning with my game face on, thinking I look hot as shit because I have 12 coats of mascara on to make my small eyes look a little bigger. Throughout the day however, as I stare at my reflection in mirrors, I see it flake off and fall on my face in little black clumps. That’s when I realize I have a problem and should probably learn proper application skills. But I just wipe it off, my ego returns, and suddenly I’m the best damn makeup artist to have ever set foot in this city.
3. Giving Advice
Sometimes I think I’m the best friend in the world. People come to me asking for help with various things, and I can usually give pretty decent insight. But then I realize I just say the same things, over and over, using bigger and bigger words. Not because people don’t understand what I’m saying or not because they’re too stubborn to take my glorious advice, and not because I need bigger words to explain what I mean. It’s because I can’t think of anything else to say, but using bigger words makes me sound smarter. For someone who one day kind-of-maybe hopes to go into counseling people for a career, this could be a serious problem. But because people keep coming back to me for advice I think, “Hold the phone, this bitch is a genius! I’m literally the best!” and I keep giving the same advice using all kinds of words because, hell, I’m intelligent and people want my opinion. And you always give the people what they want. Always.
It all started my junior year of high school when I realized that I could use personal anecdotes in my essays. I really, really, REALLY like writing and talking about myself. The world is my personal journal, and everyone and everything just adds to the character list and the plot. Writing about real things is hard for me though, and that’s when I realize I’m not good. An essay about health communication? How the hell am I supposed to make that about me? I can’t. So after I write that essay and wallow in my imminent failure, I write about myself, and Woof Magazine puts it online, and I somehow con people like you into reading it. In an instant, I go back to thinking that I’m the best blogger and the funniest yet-to-be-discovered Internet personality out there, and I can’t be told otherwise.
I guess the one thing I’m really good at is convincing myself I’m good at things when I’m really not. Somehow, I get it in my head that these things may be my callings, my reasons for life, things I should–no, MUST–share with the world. In reality, I know they’re not. And I’m sure many people would be better off if I were somehow able to knock my ego down a few notches and invest my time in things I’m actually decent at. But in the mean time, I’m going to dance my ass over to my bathroom, put on some more eyeliner, keep telling my friends what they should do with their lives, and then go write about it.
Jordan is a health sciences student in the pre-med program from Rochester, NY. She is proud to say that her work has only been featured in Woof Magazine, because she’s super exclusive like that. When she isn’t dousing herself in glitter with the hopes of becoming Ke$ha, Jordan enjoys long plane rides, embarrassing herself in Zumba class, baking sinfully delicious cupcakes and spending money that she doesn’t have on Newbury Street.